She is me in Tarot. Or I am her, which in my deck is Demeter. The epitome of all things traditionally feminine, standing there pregnant in her field of ripe grain, pregnant, ruling fertility and marriage and the cycles of life and death. Pregnancy is a big deal in my personal symbolism and metaphors. Not that I picked it. I got smacked upside the head with it, can't escape it. It's a great metaphor, full of complicated nuances, and it's perfect for me. Part of the complication is that when you have dreams and astrology messages and all signs point to pregnancy, is it a real baby or is it a metaphorical baby? Gods and spirits are tricky, and I don't always remember to ask clarifying questions.
They're asking questions about if I want a baby right now, and the damned stars are telling both of us that we might have big news to announce at Thanksgiving in the form of either a real or a metaphorical baby. That's awesome! I feel like Mary, with all the special interventions about her having a baby. But it's scary, because hey! I'm not ready for babies right now. Three years? That sounds better. Let us get through this income frozen recession and the wedding next year and my bearded giant's PhD program and maybe have me on his insurance program before anything happens.
Dear gods, please let this be a metaphorical baby. Let it be the start of something new in my life, the growing seed of what's to come next, the ripe fruit to come out of a long, thorny section on my path. Let it be a gift from the god. Gifts from the divine have always been good, even when they're difficult and confusing. Please, let it be confident strides of progress. Things have been forming in the periphery, sliding into alignment to create something I get the gist of but can't comprehend yet. I'll keep watching and walking and learning, trusting that the gifts are good and won't be more than I can handle.
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